The Sisters Club Read online

  “They’re huge,” Artemis balked, taking in the size of the two suitcases. Then she shrugged. “I suppose large people’s clothes do take up much more space.”

  Fucking Artemis.

  As the plane had landed, it’d been pouring buckets out, a typical London day in April; but as we stepped out of Heathrow, the sun was shining so brightly Artemis put her prophylactic brolly down.

  “Huh,” she said. “First you get thinner, now you’ve got the weather working for you. Looks like your luck really is changing.”

  • • •

  Mother met us at the door.

  “I’m sorry Father’s not here to greet you. He’s out—” and here she waved vaguely to the greater outdoors “—hunting something, I believe.”

  At sixty-two, Mother was still as stunning as ever in her pearl-gray suit and pumps, her Cristal champagne hair styled in an ultra contemporary, uneven cut that many far younger women would have had trouble pulling off, but on her looked perfect. Mother always prided herself on Artemis’s many boyfriends saying the two women looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. As for me, at first Artemis’s boyfriends always thought I was the hired help.

  Mother squinted at me. Too vain for glasses, too squeamish for contacts, Mother could never quite see anything that was up close.

  “My God, Diana! You’re so much smaller!” Then she gleamed a smile at Artemis. “If you’re not careful,” she said wickedly, “Diana will wind up thinner than you.”

  “The garden looks great, Mum,” I said, accepting her air kiss to my cheek.

  “It’s nothing.” She waved. “So long as Father doesn’t track through it when he’s trying to hunt things, the flowers seem to grow. Now, why don’t you put your bags upstairs in your old room, and I’ll set us out a nice tea. Cake, everyone?”

  It was going to be a long week.

  • • •

  As it turned out, it both was and wasn’t a long week. It was long in that it felt odd sleeping in the same room I’d slept in as a child, where nothing had been changed, not even the stuffed bears; I suppose I could have stayed with Artemis, but she claimed her place was too small, that she’d only need to work in the daytime, so I’d just be there alone all day; and anyway, would it really have been better spending the entire week with Artemis? And it was long in that I had to repeatedly explain to Mother that my body could not tolerate the rich foods she kept trying to force-feed me. And it was long in that I missed Dan and my new friends in Connecticut so much I was on the phone to him and Lise every day, trading “I love yous” with the former and trading concerns over Cindy’s pregnancy with the latter as well as Lise’s new concerns for her own sister, Sara, in Africa.

  But it was a short week in that I was actually having fun in London for maybe the first time in my life. I was more confident now when I walked the streets, and, perhaps as a result, people behaved more kindly toward me. When I went shopping, I felt proud. Oh, I knew I still didn’t look like most other people. But I did look better, and it was suddenly fun to see what fashionable clothes I could find in my size, rather than just buying any old ugly thing merely because it fit.

  I was scheduled to leave on Sunday. Early Friday evening, the phone rang.

  “It’s for you,” Mother said. “It’s some loud person.”

  “Where are you?” Artemis shouted through the phone, presumably shouting to hear herself talk over the racket I could hear at her end.

  “I’m here,” I said, stating the obvious. “You just called me, so you must realize that here is where I am.”

  “Yes, but why aren’t you here?” she shouted some more.

  “Which here is your here?” I countered.

  “My flat. Don’t you remember me inviting you over here for a welcome-home, going-away party in your honor?”

  “Nooooo,” I said the word slowly. “I’m fairly certain I’d have remembered if you’d done that.”

  “Huh. Perhaps I only invited you in my head. Or maybe the sudden weight loss has compromised your memory? Whatever.” I visualized her shaking it all off. “Just get over here as soon as you can…and wear something nice!”

  I’m not quite sure why I went scurrying off to do Artemis’s bidding. Perhaps it was the exciting prospect of a party? I’d never been much for parties before, always hiding in the corners in the hopes that no one would notice me; if they didn’t see me, they couldn’t say something unkind. But now I was thrilled, if a little scared, at the prospect of showing off the new me to Artemis’s friends. And I was glad I’d done so much shopping since my arrival. Before, I’d have worn black for a party—so slimming, they always tell you, as though extra-extra-large anything can ever look slim—but now I opted for a white outfit I’d purchased the day before. It had palazzo pants and a tunic trimmed with gold. When I put it on, I felt like a Greek huntress straight from mythology, even if the pants were more Roman. I even had a gold circlet I arranged in my hair. When I thought about it, I realized I’d never felt so pretty in my life, not even on my wedding day.

  • • •

  The man who answered Artemis’s door was tall, his thin body covered in a cutting-edge suit: black pants, white shirt, skinny black tie, and glittery gold jacket; the sort of thing you might see Rod Stewart in. His hair was long and blond, his dark eyes sparkling, and when his full lips parted in a smile, that smile was so wide and genuine, if I wasn’t married already, I’d have given up my new palazzo pants to get him to smile at me like that again. Behind him, I could see Artemis on her couch, legs tucked to the side as she held court.

  “Hello.” The man kept smiling as he held out his hand. “I don’t believe I’ve met you here before.” He took the hand I offered, kissing it lightly on the back. In my whole life, no one had ever kissed my hand like that before.

  “I’m Diana,” I stammered the words out at last. “Artemis’s sister.”

  “And I’m Dirk Peters,” he said, “Artemis’s fr—”

  But he never got to finish, because it was then that I snatched my hand back from his and slapped him hard across the face.

  “My God, Diana!” Artemis leapt from her couch. “I didn’t invite you over here so you could beat up my friends!”

  “I’m sorry,” I started, but then corrected myself. “No, I’m not sorry. Your friend hurt my friend, badly, with his rejection letter to her. He deserved what I just gave him and worse. He’ll be lucky if I don’t hit him again several more times before the night is out.”

  Dirk had the back of his hand to his upper lip, which was starting to swell.

  “That’s right,” he said, wagging the finger of his other hand as though he was just figuring something out. To my surprise, he was smiling, despite that I’d hit him. “You referred that American woman to me, the one who’d written her first novel. What was her name again?”

  “Lise Barrett,” I spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Lise Barrett is lucky to have a friend like you.”

  I ignored that. “I’d think you’d at least have the decency to remember the names of the people whose lives you destroy.”

  “But there are so many and one loses track.” He shrugged, not bothered in the slightest. “Tell me, is she revising now?”

  “You must be joking,” I said. “After your cruel e-mail, she destroyed the manuscript!”

  “Oh no!” His horror was real, not the mock you might expect. “Why ever did she do that?”

  “Because you told her it was rubbish!”

  “But I only said that to make her work harder. I could tell she had the glimmerings of a strong talent, but you don’t become more than just a glimmering by people telling you how good you are. Do you know that someone once rejected Charlotte Brontë over Jane Eyre with the old-world equivalent of ‘Don’t quit your day job’? And look what that did for her!”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I said. “She’s given up on that book. She’s started a new one.”

  “Oh, really?” he said, his smile
coming back again.

  • • •

  Two hours later, I was surprised at what a good time I was having. In the past, Artemis’s friends had been no more than civil to me; in fact, in our really young days, they’d been downright awful. But the group of people she had gathered at the party that night were more than kind. They kept complimenting me on my clothes, on my hair.

  On the mantel over Artemis’s fireplace, she had on display photos of her doing adventurous things on her exotic holidays, intermingled with family photos. At the center was a large one of her and me together. I’d always suspected she kept that photo on display because, compared to me in it, she looked even more gorgeous than she usually did. At one point, having allowed myself a rare glass of wine and feeling just a bit tipsy, I heard one of Artemis’s friends who was regarding the picture say to her, “Isn’t it wonderful how much better Diana looks now than she does there? Perhaps it’s time you replaced it with a more up-to-date photo to do her justice?”

  “Why bother?” Artemis said, not realizing I was standing behind her as she knocked back her own glass of wine. “She’s only going to gain it all back.”

  I was about to speak up on my own behalf when I discovered I didn’t have to. Sidling up to Artemis and her girlfriend, Dirk said, “I think you’re jealous. Your sister’s star is on the rise and you can’t stand it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Artemis scoffed. “Her ‘star is on the rise’? Rubbish.”

  “Oh, but it is,” Dirk said. “Mark my words. My whole life has been devoted to spotting stars on the rise.” He looked at the old picture of me. Then he turned to look straight at me. “And I know what I’m seeing.”

  The look of shock on Artemis’s face was well worth the price of admission.

  I left a short time after that, thanking Artemis for the lovely time, only half meaning it. When I got to the door, Dirk was there to hold it for me.

  “I wonder if you’d do me a favor,” he said, reaching out to gently touch my hair.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Your hair is beautiful, don’t get me wrong. But that face? It’s stunning. You shouldn’t be hiding it behind all that hair. Let me take you to the salon tomorrow. My treat.”

  I’d always kept my hair long because, well, large women can look ridiculous with short hair, like a pinhead attached to a balloon body. But his smile was so persuasive, he’d stuck up to Artemis for me, and Dirk “the Jaguar” Peters, as I’d come to learn through Lise, was known for his eye.

  “Why not?” I shrugged.

  • • •

  The next day I sat in the stylist’s chair, hands over my face as Dirk stood behind me.

  “Come on,” he coaxed. “Look. I think you’re going to like it.”

  At last, I peeked through my fingers and saw…

  My God. It was like a whole different woman. The hair was much shorter now, cut at varying jagged short lengths, and the stylist had colored some strands lighter, some darker, so the whole was exciting to look at. It occurred to me that if I could only keep to the weight loss, someday I might be considered a pixie, a thing I thought I’d never be—not in this lifetime.

  “What do you think?” Dirk smiled.

  “I like it,” I practically gasped the words out. How could I not like it? And then another thought occurred to me for the first time: I hadn’t told Dan I was cutting my hair. What was Dan going to think?

  But I didn’t have time to worry about that, because Dirk was swiveling my chair around so that now I was facing him.

  “I like it too,” he said. “And you know what else I’d like? Once you go back to Connecticut, I’d like to plan a visit out there, perhaps see your friend Lise and talk to her about her new book.” He paused. “Perhaps get to know you better.” And then he leaned down and kissed me gently, first on my cheek and then on the lips.

  It happened so quickly, I didn’t think to turn away.

  Sylvia

  That night we’d had the get-together at Sylvia’s Supper had been such a good night for me. I was so happy to find out I was cancer-free. I was so happy to be with those three women, thankful for their support. I was so happy, I was even nice to a customer. And oh what a good customer I picked to be nice to too.

  So, OK, it wasn’t me who was nice to the lady in the summer-squash raincoat. It was the others—Diana, Lise, and especially Cindy—who made sure she got everything she needed to solve her sudden food emergency. If they’d left it up to me, I’d have just said, “Can’t you see we’re having a private party here? The sign on the door says CLOSED. It wouldn’t say CLOSED if I wanted to be OPEN!”

  At the time, I’d been sort of miffed that they’d overridden me. But when I found myself two hundred dollars richer after the lady left, I could see where maybe it was a good thing to have people in my life who could occasionally save me from my worst instincts. And now, three weeks later, when the lady in the summer-squash raincoat came back—minus the summer squash but with a special friend in tow—I was really grateful for those three people in my life.

  I was just pulling the tables in from the sidewalk. It had been a good day. The weather was glorious, warm with none of the humidity that would no doubt soon make its ugly appearance and stay with us through the rest of the spring and then summer, and the shop had been busy. Everyone wanted to eat lobster-salad sandwiches, it seemed, and the tables had been full all day.

  “Is this Sylvia?” I heard a voice ask as I was repositioning the last table back inside.

  I turned to see the speaker. Her white-blond hair was so short it made my own crop look long, and her eyes were like flint. Her body, so skinny in her filmy spring dress, made me wonder if she ever ate anything; and her shoes, impossibly high, made me wonder how she could walk.

  “Remember me?” the woman next to her asked. It was the woman who had worn the summer-squash raincoat.

  “Of course,” I said. “I never forget a customer. What do you need? Another last-minute meal after closing time?”

  “I love it!” the white-blond said. She wasn’t talking to me, though. She was talking to her companion as if I wasn’t there.

  “This is Magda Riley,” Summer-Squash Raincoat said, introducing us. “She’s the important guest I had over that night I picked up supper here. You do know who Magda Riley is, don’t you?”

  “No.” I crossed my arms. “Should I?”

  Magda held out her hand, the nails of which were so long, I wondered how she ever got any work done. If she tried to pick her nose with one of those things, she’d probably puncture a hole straight through to her brain.

  “This is such an honor,” Magda said, taking my hand in both of hers and shaking it too many times.

  “Pleased, I’m sure,” I said, taking my hand back.

  “I just loved everything about that meal you gave Sheila that night,” Magda said.

  I strained to remember what I’d given her. The shrimp, definitely, because I remembered wincing when Cindy called them “shrimps.” But what had been so spectacular about the food I’d given her? It was just food.

  “But what I really loved,” Magda went on, “was some of the things Sheila told me you said.”

  “What did I say?” My eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Oh, I don’t remember exactly.” Magda waved her hand. “Sheila said you were pretty rude about her coming in after closing hours, and then there was that thing about the veal.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I probably said something not politically correct about not caring how veal is killed. Who are you? The food police?”

  “Close,” Sheila said. “She’s a TV producer and her network is in the tank.”

  “I wouldn’t say in the tank, per se,” Magda sniffed. “But we are struggling.”

  “Everyone else has all those reality shows,” Sheila said. “Magda doesn’t want to be accused of being derivative, but the movies of the week they’ve been making haven’t been exactly ratings successes, and ev
eryone else’s crime shows are better.”

  “So, I was thinking food. Right?” Magda said. “I mean, everyone has to eat. It’s not like people are just going to stop eating anytime soon, right?”

  Except for maybe her. She was so skinny I wanted to offer her a cookie.

  “But Magda needed to meet you in person first,” Sheila said.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Meet me in person for what?”

  “Before putting you on TV, of course,” Magda said, as if I was stupid. “It doesn’t matter how well you cook, you need personality to succeed on TV.”

  “Who said I want to be on TV?” I said.

  “Who doesn’t want to be on TV?” Sheila countered. “You could be the Martha Stewart of food.”

  “Martha Stewart is already the Martha Stewart of food,” I pointed out. “At least she was in the beginning. It was only later on that she became the Martha Stewart of decorating. And prison.”

  “But she’ll need a gimmick,” Sheila said to Magda, ignoring me now. “Emeril’s got his ‘BAM!’ Julia had her wine—”

  “A gimmick?” I said. “Who says I want to do this in the first place anyway? And what kind of fucking gimmick? I’m Sylvia! I make supper!”

  “That’s it!” Magda snap-pointed at me.

  “What’s it?” I asked.

  “You’re rude,” she said. “You’re the rudest chef ever. People will eat it up.”

  “Just remember,” Sheila added, “you can’t say ‘fucking’ on TV.”

  “And when is all this supposed to happen, if it does happen?” I wanted to know.

  “We’ll bring in a camera crew to shoot a pilot—” Magda started.

  “You want to shoot it here?” I cut her off.

  But she ignored me.

  “Then of course the network execs will have to sign off on it,” she went on. “But, if all goes well, you could be a summer-replacement show.”

  “People would definitely rather watch her,” Sheila spoke about me with certitude, “than that stupid show about the divorced woman with twelve kids.”